A Hero's Clothes
by crimson-sage
Summary: Hermoine realizes that sacrifices must be made to win the war. Severus helps her come to this realization. HGSS.


AN: Well, hello everyone! As all first-timers seem fond of saying, this is my first attempt at fan-fiction (although I've been reading it for close to a year). Feel free to give me advice, encouragement, or even the infamous "flames." Thanks for reading!  
  
Chapter One  
  
Draped in Harry's invisibility cloak, Hermoine Granger slid softly between the dark shelves of the Restricted Section of Hogwarts. Soft mumblings could be heard from under the cloth, as she unconsciously murmured the titles of the books she passed. "Toads, Snakes and Slugs: Potions and Sacrifice," "Tunderlin's Guide to Advanced Hexes and Curses," "Under the Hill: A History of Goblins, Elves and Brownies," "Unicorns...".  
  
A slim hand reached up out of the air and flipped open the last book. Since the reemergence of Voldemort from hiding and the confrontation in the Ministry of Magic, tensions in Hogwarts had been running high. Sometimes uneasiness was so thick in the air that Hermoine was almost certain that if she stuck out her tongue, she would be able to taste its heavy, nauseating flavor. Attempting to quell her own anxiety, Hermoine had done what she always did in times of trouble; she retreated into the library to look for ways to aid Harry in his struggle against the Dark Lord. Tonight, she was reading up on unicorns, to see if there was any possibility they might become useful allies in the coming confrontation.  
  
Carefully, she slipped the novel under her cloak, and straightened the books next to the empty spot to hide any evidence of its absence. Her fingers lingered on "Unforgivables: Their creation and usage," before she hurriedly stepped away. Shuddering unconsciously, Hermoine retreated back to the dormitory, her mind once again reminding her of the atrocities and cruelty of the Death-Eaters. That they could use such heinous curses with no qualms of conscious just served to reinforce her unconscious faith in her moral superiority. She was fighting for the light side, for Dumbledore's side, against the depravity of the enemy.  
  
Listing the multiple sins of the Death-Eaters, Hermoine felt her already strong resolve strengthened to see to their downfall. Never, she vowed, would she debase herself by sinking to the level of the opposition. Never would she use an unforgivable.  
  
...........................................................................  
  
Severus Snape stood at the window of his quarters, pale hands grasping the cold stone windowsill as he stared bitterly into the night. Less than an hour ago, Dumbledore had flooed into his dungeons to inform the Potions Master of a mandatory order meeting the next day. "Harry has been kept out of the loop for too long, Severus" the Headmaster had said sorrowfully, shaking his head. "Last month's confrontation at the Ministry is direct proof. It's my fault" he continued sadly, ignoring Snape's incredulous stare, "for not telling him all we knew, or suspected. Tomorrow, that shall be remedied. I shall expect you at eight, Severus, at the headquarters, for the briefing of Harry and his friends". Shooting Snape a sharp glance, Dumbledore had repeated "Eight, Severus. Promptly" before flooing out.  
  
Severus stared out into the dark in disgust. It was astonishing: Potter had emerged from last month's fiasco without an once of blame clinging to his famous skin. Never-mind that an Order member had died due to the idiotic play-hero Potter once again trying to save the day, a Potter too wrapped up in his own self-importance to stop and use his brains, minuscule though they were.  
  
He snorted. Why was he surprised? Potter had been a media-proclaimed hero from the day of his birth, a figure for the masses to adore and wizards and witches to rally around. People needed to believe in Potter, to believe in his innocence, his strength, his infallibility. His presence gave them the will to keep on fighting, even when the odds against them seemed overwhelming. Potter would be revered until the day he died, even though he was an incompetent idiot.  
  
Meanwhile, others would do the real fighting, the real planning, the real, often dirty, not-so-innocent tasks necessary to win this war. While Potter sucked up the lime-light, the Order would silently send out those members who specialized in the deeds that would never be allowed to soil Saint Potter's dainty white hands. Members like himself. All the while, Potter would be credited with their successes, while the members must spend half their time preventing Potter from hurting himself with his own poorly aimed and ineffectual attacks on the Dark Lord.  
  
Unconsciously, Severus's hand raised up to slowly massage the dark mark implanted into the flesh of his other arm. He smiled bitterly. Tomorrow the Order would probably indoctrinate the three naive Gryffindors into its ranks, boosting its numbers and the twits' already over-inflated egos. Of course, they would be of little practical use; their naive ideals of "goodness" and "light" would prevent them from taking any effectual measures against the enemy.  
  
Suddenly jerked from his musings by a sharp pain in his arm, Severus glanced down to see his dark mark gleaming a vibrant black against his too pale skin. As he slipped on his silver mask and slid out the door, Severus reflected on the ironic fact that whatever gains he made tonight would be attributed to Potter on the morrow. 


End file.
